


Vestige

by John_Steiner



Category: Dystopia - Fandom, Science Fiction - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:40:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22688623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/John_Steiner/pseuds/John_Steiner
Summary: Cheryl runs a veterinary clinic that is held up by anti-modernization rebels. Forced to treat one of them for a pain in their abdomen, Cheryl is shocked to discover that he has a navel, indicating an illegal natural birth. Barred from using networked clinic sensors, Cheryl is forced to conduct exploratory surgery to discover an appendix and that it's inflamed.





	Vestige

"What are you doing?" said the apparent leader of the gunmen, a woman with deliberate scare lines running back along her shaved scalp.

"I'm checking up on Emmanuel," Cheryl angrily stabbed a finger at the man another gunman pistol-whipped to the floor. "Then... and only then will I help your guy! If that's not acceptable, then shoot. Otherwise, shut up and get the hell out of this clinic."

Cheryl knelt down by Emmanuel and ran her fingers along the back of his neck to feel the vertebrae alignment. In her fingertips were tens of thousands of microscopic sensors embedded within the hypodermis, which among other data, gave low emission active-CT scans if arranged correctly for the X-ray refraction.

"Emmanuel?" Cheryl said.

"Uhh," he replied, his eyelids closed tight from pain.

"It's okay, you're okay," Cheryl assured, "Just take it easy and don't try to stand too quick. I'll handle this."

Emmanuel rolled onto his hands and knees and made his way to a chair to climb up onto and sit with his head leaned back.

Cheryl, meanwhile waved, to the scar-headed leader. "Alright, now you can raise him up onto the table. Easy, don't shuffle him around too much."

After he was on the table, the man's eyes fluttered open and he grabbed Cheryl's wrist. "Help me."

"I'm going to," Cheryl replied, as if taking to a child, "but I need you to let go of my wrist. Now, where does it hurt? Describe it."

"Down here," he said, holding his other hand over the lower right side of his abdomen. "Feels like pressure, as though it's gonna burst."

"Hey," the Scar Woman yelled, "Just so you know, we don't want that fancy overhead scanner stuff used. It goes to the network, and they'll find us."

"Then how am I to see what's happening?" Cheryl rhetorically asked, "Or would you rather I do this invasively?"

"What's that mean?" Scar Woman replied.

"Meaning, I cut him open and look around directly. These," Cheryl explained waving her fingers, "Can only penetrate so far and offer low resolution. So, either I run the scan or I scrub up and so do you. What's it gonna be?"

"Okay," Scar Woman accepted, and passed her sidearm to another man who then held it up, as she nodded. "We're scrubbing up then."

Cheryl shook her head at the futility, but there wasn't anything else to do about it. She and Scar Woman went to the sink to scrub. The table that the hurt man lay on had been prepped for a dog reincarnate, Gen-6 for a client outside.

"No, look," Cheryl scolded, and grabbed Scar Woman's hand. "You have to scrub under the nails too. It's exfoliation. You need it to look nearly red, otherwise we can't guarantee sterility."

Finally getting the ringleader to do it right, Cheryl and Scar Woman went back to the operating table. The guy holding the gun gasped when Cheryl unapollogetically cut open the patient's coat and shirt. Then she stopped and stared.

"Yes, that's a naval," Scar Woman pointed out, "He was born not tank bred. We all are. You people and your Gen Novus Accords didn't get rid of us all despite trying."

"You think that's what they were about?" Cheryl snapped back, as she applied local anasthetic frequencies and started the robotic-assisted incision. "Up until 2094 there were Amish people, still trying to live like it was 1820. The Accords didn't push you holistic morons to near-extinction. You did that to yourselves when not bracing for the multi-pandemics that hit. You're just a self-righteous strain of Amish with double-down hypocrisy."

Cheryl operated the surgical arms array via remote gestures, which the four pencil-sized mechanical arms emulated at a one-tenth scale, allowing her to work through just a five millimeter cut through the abdominal wall.

Next, one arm snaked its way inside. Cheryl called out loud. "Display."

A projection from the ceiling provided the arm's view inside the body and colorized it from the IR camera that looked around. Something at the start of the large intestine stood out. It resembled a small worm or deflated balloon.

"What the hell is that?" Emmanuel asked, leaning forward.

Cheryl called to the room's systems. "Identify, this location."

"Vermiform Appendix," the synthetic voice replied, "Short form, appendix. Vestigial organ."

An historical diagram showed what the small tube of tissue should've looked like, at which point Cheryl grasped what was wrong. "Appendicitis. It's inflamed and on the verge of bursting. Okay, we're going to remove it now."

"Whoa," Scar Woman protested.

"Look, I don't give a shit about your, 'What Nature Intended,' horseshit," an infuriated Cheryl spat, "Either it comes out or you'll have to hold a mortician at gunpoint. Now out of my damned way!"

"Two billion people on the Earth," Cheryl mumbled as she remotely clipped away at tissue closest to the cecum of the large intestine. "And I get the retro-grown hillbillies."

After extracting the appendix, Cheryl set about stitching the cecum and then stitching the incision opening itself, layer by layer. All the while she gave post-op instructions to Scar Woman. "When I'm done here, make sure he doesn't exert himself. These could snap if he strains himself too much."

Scar Woman nodded to the guy holding the pistol, at which he lowered it with relief. Cheryl suspected that none of them really wanted to have to shoot anyone. They helped the patient off the table, and walked him out with his arms over their shoulders for support. Scar Woman stood expectantly.

"I can't give him pain meds," Cheryl said, deducing her final demand. "The dosages are all wrong. Horse tranqs would lower his heart rate too far, and those for pets aren't suitable for human beings. Are we done?"

"Thank you," Scar Woman offered at last.

"Just get out," Cheryl pointed toward the door.


End file.
